


and turn the white snow red

by takingyournarrative



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Michael has trauma, Other, that’s about it, there’s snow involved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:54:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27889351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/takingyournarrative/pseuds/takingyournarrative
Summary: Michael, when Gerry looked round, was frozen. Not with the cold — though there was something almost like a tremor running visibly through it — but with something else. Terror, maybe, or sorrow, or both.in which winter has unpleasant associations.
Relationships: Gerard Keay/Michael Shelley, Gerard Keay/Michael | The Distortion
Comments: 8
Kudos: 86





	and turn the white snow red

**Author's Note:**

> yes yes the title is from white winter hymnal, what do you take me for, some kind of creative person?

Gerry knew before he opened his eyes that it had snowed. Something in the air, sharp and bittersweet; he could taste it, breathe it in, revel in it for a few minutes before looking. Winter was nice; nicer still when the cold didn’t mean an influx of frostbite-hungry Leitners and Mary’s unflinching indifference to the lights and fires and warm drinks that other people had to stave off the chill. She was gone now, and he had winter to himself. He could make of it what he would.

He failed to suppress a grin when he drew back the curtains — the sky was washed out and the city was pristine, open,  _ light  _ in a way that had little to do with color. Slate-grey and white, snow still falling over the half-meter that had settled in the dark. 

Exquisite. 

He texted Gertrude without making his excuses to insist on a day off; Michael would be waiting for him in the kitchen or along soon after, and Gerry would not miss the chance to see it with snowflakes in its hair — to hold it close against the wind — to let it kiss his cheeks and the tips of his fingers, blushing red with cold. 

As a matter of principle, it was important to see Michael in every season. Beautiful, changeable Michael, surrounded by a world that could only try to mirror the ways it shifted. 

But Michael, waiting as expected in the other room, was staring out the window blankly, and the expression on its face was unreadable in a way that felt decidedly disconcerting. 

“Good morning,” Gerry offered hesitantly. He wrapped his arms around its waist, pressing his head between its shoulderblades. “Are you alright?”

He felt it flicker — indescribable, the way it glanced in and out of reality in an instant, some gentle resetting of its existence. “Good morning,” it hummed, turning to face him. “I am … as well as I can be.”

Gerry tilted his head, questioning, but it only smiled and kissed him. 

When they had eaten and Gerry laid with his head in Michael’s lap, he ventured to ask if they might go outside. “Just to — y’know, enjoy the city, I guess. In the snow. With you.” He was grinning, one hand raised and twisting through Michael’s impossible curls. 

It was quiet; for a long moment, it was quiet — smiling down at him in pensive melancholy, and he was moments from taking it back when it nodded. “Very well. With you.” And Gerry beamed like summertime and watched it blush, its face returning to something like surety.

It stopped him at the door, frowning at his fingerless gloves, the bare skin of his neck, the crown of his head where his hair was vaguely blond. It shook its own head. “This will not do, sweet thing. Come here.” It procured — Gerry didn’t know from where — a scarf, a hat, mittens made of thick black wool. “You will be warm,” it murmured, in a tone that was very nearly a mandate. It kissed his fingers before fitting the mittens over them. 

Gerry decided not to question it. It was protective in general, and he didn’t mind the attention; so he smiled and took its arm and leaned against it as they left the apartment.

Outside, he spun in a circle on the sidewalk, giddy and drunk on winter. It was delicious, filling his lungs with such clean coldness — nothing like the clammy fog of the Lonely. He could not choke here. The world was opening, cracked and empty and sweet, and Gerry stood for a minute, eyes closed and face tilted skyward. Smiling. Comfortable.

Michael, when Gerry looked round, was frozen. Not with the cold — though there was something almost like a tremor running visibly through it — but with something else. Terror, maybe, or sorrow, or both. Its eyes fixed, sightless, on the roof of the next building over, the snow gathered high on the slate with more falling every second. Little glittering spots in its hair where snowflakes had gotten tangled, but its eyes icy with tears already frozen over.

Gerry had never seen it cry.

He was at its side in an instant, taking its face in his mittened hands and turning it toward him, searching its eyes. They had gone a dull, unshifting grey, clear but motionless. That frightened him; his heart would crack, water in the veins freezing over and bursting them for Michael.

“Michael. Darling. What’s wrong?” His voice a whisper; his breath a fog, brushing over its face and bringing it back to reality.

“I … am sorry,” it said, and frowned, like the words were distasteful. “No, I — the cold. I do not … like it.” 

He knew it like this, could almost follow the twisting paths of it sorting through its emotions, hateful as they were for it to define. It tried, for him, and he appreciated it; but he was patient. “Take your time.”

“No, it … could you hold my hands?” Almost abashed. He hated that, the thread of shame in its voice. He went to pull off his mittens and its eyes widened, the ice cracking on the skin around them. “Do not take them off.” Gerry frowned, but nodded, gathering Michael’s hands into his own. They were too much, really, to hold, but he could not deny that he loved trying. 

Its knuckles and the tips of its fingers were red; the blood pooled in frantic little spirals under its skin. In this, at least, it was not motionless. “Can I kiss them?” he asked, almost idly.

“Of course.” The trace of an audible smile. He nodded, let his face grow soft, deliberately smoothing the concern from his brow and the set of his mouth. Michael’s hands were cold, too cold against his lips, and he hoped that meant they would feel warm to it as he pressed kisses along its knuckles, to the tips of every finger, to its palms and wrists and the twisted veins on the backs of its hands.

It sighed, and it sounded like comfort, and he felt a little warmer. “Come here,” he murmured, pulling its hands against his chest and pinning it there, wrapping his arms around its back. “You’re safe.” He felt its face press against the top of his head and smiled against its collarbone. “Do you want to go inside?”

It hummed assent and he pulled away again, leading the way into the apartment. “I’ll get the curtains.” The windows were wide and he saw its eyes flicker to them the moment they were inside, the snow still falling bright and unconcerned over the city. He tugged the curtains shut, searched its face and found it already calmer than before. “Sit down, I’ll make cocoa.” 

It would not sit — it insisted on following him to the kitchen, wrapping around him as he worked. An inconvenience, perhaps, but not an unwelcome one.

“So,” he said, when they were curled on the couch and the steam rising in front of its face almost obscured the way its eyes were comfortably kaleidoscopic again. “Do you want to talk about that?”   
It shook its head. Nodded. Screwed up its face in an expression a step removed from confusion and a near cry to displeasure. “I do not like the cold,” it repeated.

“Yeah, I — got that,” said Gerry. “Do you know why?”

“The  _ Tundra _ ,” it muttered into its cocoa.

“Sorry?”   
“The ship, beloved. The ship to Sannikov Land. Michael  _ Shelley _ ’s ship — Peter Lukas’ ship — Gertrude Robinson’s doomed voyage to an island that never was. It was … cold. Bitter. The last thing, really, he ever remembered.”

_ Oh _ . 

Gerry laid his cocoa aside, reached out for Michael’s hand. “I’m sorry,” he said. He had never been good at consolation. He wanted to, now; he wanted to be good for Michael, at everything, always. “I’m — sorry, Michael. Is there anything I can do to help?”

It laughed. Gerry loved that about it, the way it laughed at anything. Joy in sorrow, joy in terror, joy in joy. Of course, he knew it wasn’t really joy most of the time, but it was sweet of it nonetheless. Optimism was hard to come by, and he cherished it.

“Be here,” it said, and something warm in his heart that belonged to Michael lit up at the quiet simplicity of the demand.

“That I can do,” he murmured, cuddling against it. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

“And — stay safe.”

“Of course,” he said. Michael knew he was lying, but he felt it grin and knew that at least it was satisfied. “She can’t hurt you, you know,” he added.

“She already has.”

True. Irrevocably, indelibly. “You’re right, I’m sorry.” He pressed himself closer still. “She can’t — anymore. We’re going to be safe if it kills us.”

Which maybe it would someday. Certainly, it was a possibility they could not rule out. But now Michael was warm, and Gerry was mumbling reassurances against its chest, and it was pulling blankets over them from the back of the sofa. 

Outside, the snow quieted the city, and when dark fell they did not see the lights blink on, warm gold and multicolored, all over London. The air still tasted like winter, and Gerry kissed Michael before it could notice to shudder.


End file.
